


Voiceless

by LeighLemont



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Sign Language, Baby Sam Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Misunderstood Dean Winchester, Mute Dean Winchester, Muteness, Nonverbal Communication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Teenagers, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-08-26 19:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16687942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighLemont/pseuds/LeighLemont
Summary: The last time John heard Dean’s voice was the night Mary died.





	1. The last time.

**Author's Note:**

> I have several chapters brainstormed ahead, but I am currently still working on another fic that I'm devoting most of my creative emotional energy to. Updates will be sporadic, but I have every intention of continuing with this idea. Timeline will likely not stay linear, this is going to be a series of snapshots of Dean and Sam navigating their communication with each other and those around them.

The last time John heard Dean’s voice is the night Mary died. 

There were sirens echoing through their neighborhood and lights flashing against the houses, both emergency responders and flickering flames illuminated their street. His boys were in the back of the Impala and he was kneeling beside them as the Fire Department worked to get the EMTs in to help Mary. They had pulled him out of the house as he’d struggled to fight his way inside and then the staircase had collapsed. Here, with his boys outside watching as the house goes up in ash, he felt helpless. He already knew it was too late. Even if it wasn’t and they could reach her... She was on the ceiling. How was she bleeding on the ceiling?

John was staring up at the window of Sam’s nursery, trembling and coughing from the smoke he had inhaled trying to go back. That’s when he heard Dean start to speak. It didn’t sound right, strangled and small, scared and broken, and a million miles away from the little laughing voice he associated with his four year old son. 

He was stuttering, asking where mommy was. He was holding Sam so tight John was almost afraid Sam wouldn’t be able to breathe. Dean was crying. John was crying too. He didn’t know the answers to Dean’s sobbed questions. He grabbed his boys from the seat where dean was perched and held them tight, trying to take away some of Dean’s panic and pain. Dean was almost screaming, asking for his mother and all John could do was cry with him and tell Dean repeatedly that he was sorry. Dean screamed until he was too tired to keep screaming. He fell asleep across John’s lap, still holding Sam and eyes red, face wet with tears. 

John never heard Dean speak again after that. 

The first few weeks after Mary’s death, John tried to tell himself that Dean was just taking time to adjust. That he’d start talking again once he’d started to accept that Mary was gone. He tried to tell himself repeatedly that Dean would start talking again soon. 

But Dean never did. 

John knew Dean was doing well developmentally before the fire. He was talking like a normal four year old. He would sometimes try to make Sam repeat his words, even though Sam was too little to do it. Dean didn’t have perfect pronunciation of some words, sometimes things he said still came out with a touch of toddler speak around the edges. Sometimes he didn’t have all the vocabulary that he needed, but John thought that was probably normal for four. In most ways, Dean was still acting like a normal four year old. 

He just wouldn’t talk. 

He didn’t answer when John asked him what he wanted for dinner. He didn’t answer when John asked if he wanted to hold Sammy. He didn’t answer when John offered him choices between toys and books. It wasn’t just John though, Dean didn’t answer anyone. 

After the fire, John had tried to get Dean to go to a therapist. He had refused to talk to her. She’d had him draw her some pictures and she’d made some recommendations to John, but in the end he hadn’t been able to force Dean to start talking again. The therapist had told him that sometimes after traumatic events, kids found it difficult to express themselves verbally. John didn't know how to fight against that and with what he was learning about the supernatural, John wanted to hit the ground running to start hunting the thing that had done this to his family. They couldn’t stay and so John had taken Dean out of therapy when he decided it wasn’t making a difference. 

There were times early on when John was afraid that Dean had gone deaf and that that was what had caused him to fall silent and stop answering. John knew this wasn’t true though because Dean would still orient towards sounds of the things happening around him. He still looked at John when John spoke, he still looked around when he heard birds or music, or at the TV when it turned on, or towards Sammy when Sam made noise. 

Dean was still there, he still understood, but it was like Dean was locked down and couldn’t communicate what he wanted to. Sometimes he seemed like he wanted to answer. On these occasions when he pushed himself, his face would look like he was in pain. Dean would part his trembling lips, almost as though trying to push a word out, but then before he had the chance he would snap his mouth closed and angry tears would spill from his eyes. He always looked so frustrated and broken after.

John didn’t know how to help. 

Eventually he stopped trying to make Dean talk.


	2. We'll figure it out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's 4  
> Sams 6mo
> 
> Clueless as to what to do except let Dean know he was there, John crossed the room and lifted Dean, with Sam still in his arms, up out from under the covers. He held them both in his arms in a firm, but gentle embrace and paced the room a couple times, bouncing the boys gently as he went. He murmured quietly that it was going to be okay. Dean was shaking his head miserably.

John was sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed in the hotel room that he’d rented for the week. He wasn’t moving; he was barely even breathing. Instead he was staring down at the thing in front of him that had caused him to zone out and shut down without really seeing it.

They weren’t all that far from home, but John knew it wasn’t home anymore. He hadn’t bothered with any of the things he was supposed to do to repair or demolish or sell the house and property. He hadn’t really dealt with any of the splintered pieces of their lives. For now the best he could manage was making sure Sam and Dean were clean, clothed, and fed. 

He’d met Missouri Moseley a couple days ago. He’d gone looking for answers about what had happened to his family. He’d wanted closure and to be able to start moving on. Instead, after taking Missouri to the half burned remains of his home with Mary, he’d walked away with more questions and more troubled than before. He didn’t know when he would or if he even could go back again; both to the physical house or to normal. After meeting with Missouri, he had too much to think about and it was too much to process.

Instead of deciding anything right away about what he’d learned… Instead of calling the insurance company… Instead of contacting the funeral home..Instead of going to the garage to let them know where he was... He’d just left with Dean and Sam packed into the car and booked a hotel room just outside of town. They’d already been here for two days and John didn’t have an answer to how long they were staying. 

John had had moments of being frozen like this before; where the world seemed overwhelming. He was having flashbacks and panic attacks like he had when he’d first come back from Vietnam, but instead of dead soldiers and blood on his hands, he was seeing a burning Mary and blood on Sammy’s face. He had a lot of practice ignoring these types of things, but this time it was hard to snap out of it. Sometimes it took him longer than he realized to get himself back. When John froze like this, it was like he wasn’t there anymore. He was vacant and unreachable. 

Right now, it was Sam laid out on the mattress in front of him that had him frozen. He didn’t really see or hear the crying baby. John’s eyes had been glazed over for close to 20 minutes as he’d just sat there wondering blankly what to do. He didn’t have training for this. No one had ever told him how to raise two kids on his own. 

Sammy was only whimpering now. He had cried so loud for so long and he couldn’t do it any longer. His pitiful hitches shook his shoulders. His tummy hurt and screaming for da had made his tummy hurt even worse. His face was red from how long he’d been crying He was looking up at John with those little sore eyes. He had even tried reaching out with exhausted little arms to get da to notice him, but it hadn’t worked. He didn’t know what else to try. Usually when he wanted ma or da or de that’s all he had to do. His cries had been slowly decreasing in volume as John had sat there not hearing him. 

John wasn’t sure what it was at first, but something managed to catch his attention despite how inside himself he’d let himself fall. John felt a shiver run through his body and it was like cold water ran down his body from the top of his head and along his spine. He shuddered and blinked, coming back to himself and realizing where he was. He looked around for the source of what had jarred him back and his attention focused on the small window where the curtain was half covering the pane of glass and view of the parking lot behind. 

There was a branch tapping an unsteady rhythm on the window. Sometime in the last little while the sky had clouded over. Or maybe it had been cloudy all day. Maybe it had been sunny yesterday. He didn’t know.

He turned his head, moving for the first time since he’d sat down here, and looked back and forth between his ever silent little boy curled under his jacket on the other bed. Dean was a reluctant sleeper now, and he didn’t sleep much unless he had exhausted himself to the point where he physically couldn’t stay awake any longer. Dean’s cheeks were still wet. He’d silently cried himself to sleep every night since the fire. He looked at his cried-out baby in front of him wrapped up in a handmade baby quilt Mary had brought down from the attic just before Dean had been born. 

Even though he was aware now and could see Sammy had obviously been very upset for at least a little while, he didn’t reach out. He couldn’t. Sammy was looking up at him with red blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes and John couldn’t remember how he was supposed to pick him up without hurting him. He couldn’t even picture himself doing it even though it was a practiced movement.

John was in over his head. He didn’t even know half of what Sam needed and Dean couldn’t tell him. Partially because he was four, partially because every time Dean tried to talk it ended with him hitting himself with his tiny balled fists or scratching his own face with his nails as tears streamed down his cheeks. 

John didn’t know what to do.

On some level, John knew that he actually did know. John had already done this baby thing before. Dean was four, and aside from a couple nights spent in the car or in a hotel because of stupid fights John and Mary had had, John had been just as around and involved in raising Dean as Mary had. He’d prepared bottles, and bathed a baby, and changed diapers, gotten up in the night, and helped teach Dean how to walk and talk, but he felt so lost with Sammy in front of him now. 

There was movement from the other bed and John looked over towards Dean again, seeing the boy sitting up and rubbing his eyes. John was amazed Dean had even slept through Sam crying. Sam looked like he’d spent a bit of his time laying on the mattress in front of John at least half-screaming for attention. John felt a distant twist of guilt in his stomach at the thought of Sam screaming for him while he couldn’t hear, but he hadn’t meant to do this. He was still catching up to when right now was really.

Dean Looked around for the source of the noise he’d thought had been part of his nightmare. Daddy was sitting on the opposite bed and Sammy was making funny sounding little hitches. Dean recognized them as the sounds Sammy made when mommy put him in his crib for a nap and Sammy didn’t want one. Sometimes Sammy would cry really hard for the first few minutes of being put in his crib and then would be reduced to these little noises. Dean scooted towards the edge of the mattress and dropped to the floor. He crossed the small space between the two beds and then climbed up across from daddy, mirroring John’s position. 

John watched Dean wake and move silently. Always silently. When he was settled across from John, he looked up at him with a puzzled expression. It was the one that had always draped itself over Dean’s features when he’d been about to ask a question. Questions like: “Where do the clouds go?”, and, much to John’s horror at the time, “Where do babies come from?”, and John’s personal favourite even after the hundredth repetition: “Why?”. Sitting there with Dean silently questioning him, John would have gladly done anything to hear any of those inquiries pass from Dean’s lips. Instead, he stayed quiet. John had no idea what Dean was really asking him now, but he gave Dean the most honest answer he could. 

“I don’t know what to do.” He admitted to the little boy. He didn’t know what he expected Dean to do in response. Dean was so little and at the moment just as broken as he was; maybe even more so. He didn’t know what Dean’s quiet really meant. Dean probably couldn’t even tell him how he needed John to help him, even if he was still talking. When he’d taken Dean to the therapist the doctor he’d spoken to had said sometimes kids like Dean just needed time before they were able to start talking again. They’d described the possibility of Dean developing something called ‘selective mutism’ if they didn’t find a way to get Dean talking, but it didn’t seem that selective to John. Dean never spoke, no matter where they were or who they were with. There didn’t seem to be anything selective about it at all. 

Dean nodded in response to his words and then reached out tenderly with his fingertips. Dean traced some of the fine brown hairs that were on top of Sammy’s head. That was when Sammy seemed to noticed Dean was there. Sammy’s eyes blinked wide and John winced as Sammy started to scream anew. Dean leaned over him and turned Sammy around so Sammy was facing him instead of Dad. He rubbed his hand over Sammy’s belly, and made a soft clicking noise to the fussing infant. He wiped Sammy’s tears with his thumb and then raced his finger over Sammy’s lip, the same way he’d seen mommy do hundred of times before.

Sure enough Sammy responded by clicking his tongue against his gums and making a little sucking sound before scrunching up his eyes and starting to cry again. Dean leaned down and gave Sam’s belly a quick kiss before dropping off the side of the bed and onto the floor again. He crossed the room to look through Sammy’s things. Dean didn’t know how to make what Sammy needed, but he knew dad did. When he found what he was looking for, he came back and pushed it up onto the bed in John’s direction. John reached out for it and turned it over in his hands.

“He’s hungry?” John asked, eyeing the empty bottle Dean had handed him. Dean nodded. John reached out to pick up Sam, but hesitated. Right now, he didn’t really trust himself to hold the baby. He didn’t want to risk shutting down again while Sam was in his arms. Instead he reached down and lifted Dean back up onto the bed with one arm. “I’ll make it. Keep him safe, don’t let him roll off.” 

Dean nodded again and pulled Sam across the comforter and into his lap. Sammy was still screaming, but Dean didn’t seem to really mind. He was rocking Sam, making those same clicking noises with his tongue. John had never heard Dean do it before, but Sammy seemed to like it. He had stopped crying and was reaching with tiny fingers to touch Dean’s lips. He giggled as Dean made another click intentionally louder than the rest and then tickled at Sammy’s tummy. Sammy was still trying to cry, but he was interrupting himself with laughter as Dean tickled and played with him. 

John turned away and went through Sammy’s diaper bag, numbly searching for the formula. It was easy, something he’d done a million times. He could at least still make a bottle even if everything else about caring for Sammy felt foreign at the moment. When it was ready he crossed the room to take Sammy from Dean but once he reached the side of the bed he couldn’t do it. His head was too scattered, he was still having a hard time being present and focusing. He didn’t want to drop Sammy. 

Instead of taking Sam from Dean like he’d planned to, he handed the bottle to Dean. Dean accepted it without hesitation before giving John a gentle smile, one that made Dean look way older than he really was. Hee slipped the nipple of the bottle between Sam’s lips and Sam curled into Dean’s chest.

“I’m going to shower okay?” John asked. Dean seemed to knew what he was doing as he leaned Sam up and rubbed his back to help him burp. Dean nodded again and John crossed the room and closed the door. 

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean whispered to the fussing baby. Sammy was still snuffling and whining, as though he was uncomfortable even though he was being fed. Dean pressed the back of his hand to Sammy’s skin and Sammy felt a little cold to the touch. 

He gently laid Sammy and the bottle on the bed beside him. Sammy started to cry again, but Dean made a gentle shushing sound in his direction as he moved quickly to untuck the covers and lean against the headboard. Dean picked Sammy back up and tucked him back into his lap before pulling the covers up over his legs and Sammy’s belly. 

“Better?” Dean murmured. Sammy tugged impatiently at Dean’s hand and Dean tipped him back again and held the bottle for Sammy to keep drinking. He didn’t know why he could still whisper to Sammy, but his words stopped every time he tried to talk to daddy. He was so worried he’d say the wrong thing to daddy and then his throat had closed up and he couldn’t make it work even when he tried now.

Sammy slurped noisily on the bottle and closed a finger around where Dean was holding it to his lips, like he was trying to hold it himself even though it was too heavy for him. Sammy was always trying to do things before he was ready to, like when he first started trying to roll over and got stuck, or when he would make grabby hands towards Dean’s food even though he was too little to eat those things. 

Dean could hear daddy moving around in the bathroom and the water hitting the tub. Sammy needed a bath too, and so did he. He’d take Sammy in when daddy was shaving to let daddy know. So far that strategy had worked. Dean had tried to force himself to use his voice the first few times when Sam had fussed and daddy had gotten flustered, but he hadn’t been able to make himself open his mouth. He’d tried until his face was red and he’d been crying as hard as Sammy. Daddy had scooped him up and rocked him back and forth while promising that he didn’t have to talk if he couldn’t, just show. 

So that’s what Dean was doing. When Dean or Sammy needed something he just showed daddy what it was. Dean understood most of Sammy’s cries easily, just from having spent so much time with him. He was getting pretty good at showing daddy when daddy got quiet and uncertain. 

“He trying Sammy.” Dean whispered to Sammy again as Sammy squirmed and fisted a hand in Dean’s t-shirt. Sammy pushed the bottle away so Dean set it beside him on the big mattress. “He don’t know your sounds as good as me and mo-mm-y-” 

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. He swallowed and tried to keep whispering to Sammy, but he couldn’t. His eyes went wide as he stared down at his baby brother. What if he never spoke to Sammy again? Just like daddy. Quiet tears rolled down his cheeks and he tried to stop them from coming with the back of his hand. He didn’t want to stop talking to Sammy, but what if he couldn’t ever again? 

The bathroom door opened and John returned to the room showered and changed into fresh clothes. He felt more grounded, more himself now that he’d had a moment to himself. He looked over at the boys where Dean was still quietly holding Sam, but realized Dean was crying again. John felt a flash of frustration that he would never be able to coax Dean into telling him why he was upset. It was hard to even start trying to make the big things better when he couldn’t even ask what was wrong in the moment. 

Clueless as to what to do except let Dean know he was there, John crossed the room and lifted Dean, with Sam still in his arms, up out from under the covers. He held them both in his arms in a firm, but gentle embrace and paced the room a couple times, bouncing the boys gently as he went. He murmured quietly that it was going to be okay. Dean was shaking his head miserably. 

“Come on Dean, what is it?” John prodded gently. Dean reached up to his own mouth with one of his little hands and clamped it over his sealed lips as more tears slipped down his cheeks. John understood; it made him sad too. 

“We’ll figure it out Dean.” John promised, kissing his forehead. He hoped he sounded more sure than he was. “You and me, and even Sammy. Somehow. We will.” 

Dean tucked his cheek against the top of Sammy’s head, but didn’t give John any type of answer. He couldn’t try to communicate anymore. He thought miserably about the bath he and Sammy both needed, but it would have to wait. He couldn’t even show daddy right now. 

John sighed tiredly, and continued to pace the room leisurely as he rocked the two boys, telling a nonsense story he made up on the fly. It wasn’t very good, but it was something to fill the silence. Dean settled against his chest, and Sammy was starting to drop off again. 

They would figure this out somehow.


	3. Denominators first.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's 13  
> Sam's 9
> 
> Bobby had had breakfast ready for them when they'd gotten back. After clearing up the table and leaving the dishes in the sink for later, Bobby had gone outside to get a bit of work done. He’d left the boys inside, Sam declaring that they were going to work on homework. Bobby suspected that that really meant Sam was going to work on homework and Dean was probably going to hover nearby doing something else. He didn’t really know when Dean had checked out so completely from school. Dean was in eighth grade, and Bobby tried to encourage him to from time to time to take it more seriously, but it didn't seem to have an impact. Dean didn’t speak, but Bobby knew Dean understood more of the concepts he was being taught in school than he ever acknowledged to his teachers. He knew Dean was certainly capable and picked up on things quickly, but it wasn't like he could really force the kid to care when John didn't seem to care one way or another about Dean's academic success or failure.

The Winchester boys had been staying with him about two and a half weeks and the plan was for them to stay until the end of the month, almost another week and a half from now. It was Saturday, but both boys had been up and out of the house by quarter to seven in order to follow John’s training schedule.

Bobby had had breakfast ready for them when they'd gotten back. After clearing up the table and leaving the dishes in the sink for later, Bobby had gone outside to get a bit of work done. He’d left the boys inside, Sam declaring that they were going to work on homework. Bobby suspected that that really meant Sam was going to work on homework and Dean was probably going to hover nearby doing something else. He didn’t really know when Dean had checked out so completely from school. Dean was in eighth grade, and Bobby tried to encourage him to from time to time to take it more seriously, but it didn't seem to have an impact. Dean didn’t speak, but Bobby knew Dean understood more of the concepts he was being taught in school than he ever acknowledged to his teachers. He knew Dean was certainly capable and picked up on things quickly, but it wasn't like he could really force the kid to care when John didn't seem to care one way or another about Dean's academic success or failure. 

It was about ten-thirty in the morning and Bobby was headed back up to the house. He went in through the back door and he could hear the scrape of a chair and the water running in the kitchen. He assumed both boys were probably in there, they didn’t tend to stray too far from each other unless they were fighting. He hung up his hat and coat, but left on his boots, intending to go out for a piece of wood for the fire. As he passed the kitchen door and he looked in, stopping for a second to watch the boys. They were both facing away from the doorway. Dean, as Bobby had suspected, wasn’t even sitting at the table with his school things and was instead standing at the sink finishing the dishes from breakfast. Sam was sitting at the kitchen table and seemed to be working out of one of Dean’s text books. 

“This question doesn’t make sense Dean.” Sam muttered, mildly frustrated. Sam stole Dean’s text books all the time to see if he could do the work Dean didn’t bother himself with. He heard Dean huff a laugh in response. “Well it doesn’t.” 

There were a few seconds silence before Sam laid his pencil down and crossed his arms. 

“Explain it again?” Sam asked. 

Dean clicked at him twice in response, though Bobby wasn't sure whether or not that meant something of substance. The boys had a whole system of sounds that Sam could translate easily, but Bobby didn't spend enough time with them and had never been interpretive enough to catch on to more than a few of Dean's signals. They were nuanced as hell. Dean walked over to Sam, drying his hands on his jeans as he went. He leaned over Sam’s shoulder, ruffling Sam’s hair absently, and pulled the book closer so that he could see. 

“Number six.” Sam said, pointing at the offending line of mathematics. Dean looked it over for a moment and then picked up Sam’s work, comparing it to the question.

“Denominators first, Sammy. Then calculations.” 

Bobby didn’t hear what Sam said back. He was frozen looking at Dean. He snapped to his senses and stepped back out of sight, leaning silently against the wall. Dean’s tone had been so natural and easy, and it had taken Bobby completely by surprise. Still, he had no idea how Dean would react if he found out Bobby was there and had heard him. He didn’t want to push Dean by accident and send him spiraling, unable to even write or make eye contact. 

Bobby had never heard Dean speak before and the voice Dean had produced had been solid and steady. It had surprised him, thought he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he'd spent a ton of time wondering what Dean sounded like. He’d always just shrugged and accepted the silence as part of who Dean was. He’d never considered trying to force the boy to talk, and the way John told it, doing so was an absolute mistake one hundred percent of the time. He had assumed from the day he’d met Dean that he never would never hear the boy talk. John had always told him that Dean was physically capable of speech, that John was pretty sure Dean still could, but that he just didn’t or _couldn’t _.__

____

____

As far as they'd known, Dean didn’t speak around anyone. He didn’t even talk in his sleep. He didn't talk to John. He’d never murmured a word to any of his teachers. He’d never spoken to Bobby; even when he’d been little and had had to try to spell out impossibly long words in the notebook Bobby always left on the counter for him. Bobby couldn’t say for sure whether Dean had ever talked to anyone else John left his kids with, but he suspected not since it had never come up. Until now, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that there was someone Dean did talk to. 

“I did.” Sam grumbled back stubbornly. 

“No you didn’t, Sammy.” Dean said affectionately. Then he started to explain the question over again from the start, interrupted ever so often by Sam cutting him off to ask a question. Dean seemed so loose and open, not at all the rigid and locked down like he could be. 

He didn’t want to take the boys by surprised and be the reason Dean retreated so deep inside himself that even Sam couldn’t get him to respond. He went out the back door, grabbing his jacket on the way. He had some more work he could tend to outside and then he’d come in through the front, careful to make enough noise to let the boys know he was there.


	4. Does Dean talk to you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is 17.  
> Sam is 13.
> 
> “Does Dean talk to you, Sammy? I mean out loud. Not with hand spelling thing, or signals, or the clicking thing. I mean with words. ” Dad’s face was serious as his eyes searched Sam’s features. Sam hesitated before biting his lip. Dad had said no one would be in trouble, but he felt weird about the question. Dean had never told dad, out loud or in writing, about talking to Sam with his voice. Not at all. Dad was looking at him expectantly and usually could tell when Sam was lying, so he wordlessly nodded his head. John’s mouth fell open for a second, gaping at him in disbelief, before he licked his lips and said, “When did he start?”

Sam didn’t think anything of it at first when dad came back inside alone. Dad and Dean had been working on the car, Dean was probably still messing with it. When he heard the car start though and pull out of the lot, he looked up from his book at where John was settling down at the table. 

“Where’s Dean going?” Sam asked. 

“Supply run. Figured I’d let him drive the car after working on it.” 

That made Sam suspicious. Dad didn’t let Dean borrow the car often. Sometimes, but not usually without an actual reason. They weren’t all that far out of town and they didn’t need anything. Sam frowned and turned back to his book. He’d ask Dean about it later when the conversation wasn’t so much work. It was always easier to talk to Dean instead of dad. After a few minutes though, Dad was still watching him. He looked up again when he felt John’s weight settle on the mattress beside his legs. Dad didn’t say anything right away and Sam carefully slid his bookmark into place, waiting. 

John was looking down at his hands wondering how to begin. He needed to know the truth, and he knew asking Sam was his best bet towards getting it. 

“Sammy, I need to ask you something. And please tell me the truth.” 

“Okay.” Sam said cautiously. 

“No one’s in trouble, but…” John frowned, trailing off as though trying to figure out how to get his point across. “We gotta talk Sam.” 

Sam had a sinking feeling in his gut and felt his fingers went a little numb. The tone John was using with him was stiff in the way John’s voice only got when he was uncertain, embarrassed, or concerned. Sam had the distinct impression he already knew what this was about and why Dean was out driving the Impala right now instead of back here with them. Dean had warned him about dad’s awkward attempt to give him ‘the talk’. Dean had been about twelve or thirteen...Sam was almost fourteen. Dad certainly looked uncomfortable.

Apparently dad had tried to offer Dean some sort of advice, stuttering his way through the beginning of one sentence before letting his voice die and looking at Dean with a hopeless expression. That had gone on for a while before John had finally given up. It had resulted in dad very hastily giving Dean a box of condoms and telling him to write him a note if he had any questions. Dean had just nodded and then died of embarrassment in the bathroom once dad had made his own gruff and awkward exit. 

Silently in his head, Sam vowed he would never even think about a girl if it meant dad wouldn’t have this conversation with him. He prayed to God, to the universe, to whatever cosmic entity wanted to listen, for dad to change his mind and bail. Dad sighed heavily and then gave him one last studying look before he stood up and grabbed a beer from the fridge. It seemed hopeless now, the moment of escape was long past him now that dad was sitting directly in front of him with a fortifying drink. 

Sam was screwed. 

“Look, dad-” Sam started as John took a large pull from the beer in his hand. Sam trying to find a way to excuse them both from the upcoming awkwardness, but John held up a hand to silence him. 

“Sammy.” He said after a few seconds of inspecting his beer and rolling it between his hands. His father’s tone was quavering and uncertain. Sam swallowed. This was it. Any second. Dad was going to ask him if he was having sex or something equally horrifying and his face was going to burn clean off of his skull from embarrassment. “Does Dean talk to you?” 

“No.” Sam said forcefully, without really hearing the question, but then he did a double take realizing that John hadn’t asked him anything remotely related to girls or offered any advice that would make him want to vanish through the floorboards. “Wait, what?” 

“Does Dean talk to you, Sammy? I mean out loud. Not with hand spelling thing, or signals, or the clicking thing. I mean with words. ” Dad’s face was serious as his eyes searched Sam’s features. Sam hesitated before biting his lip. Dad had said no one would be in trouble, but he felt weird about the question. Dean had never told dad, out loud or in writing, about talking to Sam with his voice. Not at all. Dad was looking at him expectantly and usually could tell when Sam was lying, so he wordlessly nodded his head. John’s mouth fell open for a second, gaping at him in disbelief, before he licked his lips and said, “When did he start?” 

“Uh…” Sam said, uncertain. He didn’t remember Dean ever not talking to him when they were alone. Some of his earliest memories were of listening to his brother tell him stories while he drifted off to sleep. “Never? I don’t...Dean’s always...I mean… Dean's always talked to me.” 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” John asked, looking lost. He’d completely missed the fact that Dean had been talking out loud for this long. He knew he wasn’t the best father, especially since Mary’s death. He left the boys alone too often, and he wasn’t emotionally available most of the time. He knew that about himself, but he hadn’t realized he’d missed something so fundamental about his boys. 

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged. 

When he’d been little, it had just been normal. Dean never talked to anyone but him. Dean had whispered a lot more then, usually speaking quietly against his ear, but Dean’s voice had never been a secret to Sam. When he’d been little, he’d always just kind of thought of the sound of Dean’s voice as belonging to him, Sam. As they’d gotten older and his focus had become less self-centered he hadn’t said anything about Dean talking because of what it did to Dean when people tried to force him. 

He’d seen Dean lose it in frustration and scratch up the sides of his own face or hunch in on himself with his arms wrapped around his head one too many times to give people a reason to push Dean there. If people thought Dean didn’t talk to anyone at all, they’d be less likely to try to push him. Deep down, Sam had always been afraid that if he told someone, Dean’s voice would dry up around him too. 

“Does he talk to anyone else?” John asked when Sam didn’t elaborate any further. 

“No.” 

John nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn't really believed his eyes when he'd seen Dean's lips moving as he'd walked back to the car. They'd stopped for gas about a week ago and Dean had twisted around to Sam, not unusual in itself, but then John had watched Dean's mouth start to move instead of his hands. John had a lot of questions for Sam that he forced himself to swallow back. His curiosity was cutting like a knife in his chest. He wanted desperately to know what Dean sounded like. Dean was seventeen. The last time John had heard him, Dean had been just four years old and he’d sounded so terrified. So terribly wrong. Even though he wanted to interrogate Sam, he didn’t really think it would accomplish anything. When it came down to it, all his questions centered around hearing Dean, and that wasn’t something Sam could control or describe in enough detail to satisfy him.

“Okay.” He settled on, nodding his head and standing up. “Thanks for telling me.” 

“Dad…” Sam said, sounding small, but definitely determined. John looked back over his shoulder, waiting for Sam to continue. “Are you going to tell him I told?”

“No.” John said with a pained smile. He really didn’t want to follow that course of action, but he didn’t see another choice. He had very vague memories of Dean’s therapist telling him that in time Dean might speak in situations where he was comfortable. For whatever reason, it seemed like the only situation where Dean felt fully comfortable was with Sam. He couldn’t take that away. “I’m not even going to tell Dean I know about it.” 

John walked away from him then, settling in with his journal and a few lore books to do some research. Sam went back to his book and let himself get lost in the pages again, not altogether convinced that dad would let it drop, but reasonably certain he at least wouldn’t push it further tonight. 

Neither of them spoke again, even when the familiar hum of the Impala returned to the parking lot.


	5. Low blow, Sammy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's 16  
> Sam's 12
> 
> Dean and Sam had been fighting for two or three days, and John wasn’t even sure why. Sam wouldn’t tell him. The boys were needling each other and finding ways to be at each other's throats. Annoyingly, despite their current disagreement, the boys were unanimous in their secrecy because Dean refused to write it down for him. He’d had enough of both of their attitudes and he just wanted them to behave.

They’d been driving every day for almost a week. Dean and Sam had been fighting for two or three days, and John wasn’t even sure why. Sam wouldn’t tell him. The boys were needling each other and finding ways to be at each other's throats. Annoyingly, despite their current disagreement, the boys were unanimous in their secrecy because Dean refused to write it down for him. He’d had enough of both of their attitudes and he just wanted them to behave. 

The atmosphere in the car was thick, Sam had his knees drawn up and a book carefully held between his hands, but the twelve year old was using every opportunity the text presented him, like the turn of a page, to look away from the book and glare at Dean. Dean had his arms folded and was turned towards the window. 

John didn’t know what had started the fight, and he generally let them work those kinds of things out on their own, but the last straw had been in the diner when Sam had ordered Dean the wrong food only to have Dean ‘accidentally’ dump his drink into Sam’s stir fry. John had paid the bill, the boys had gone without lunch, and now they were driving and all three of them were seething. 

“It’s not illegal to look at you, Dean.” Sam snapped suddenly. Dean gave him the finger in response. 

“Boys I swear to Christ…” John started an empty threat, his jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He was so tired of whatever drama was going on. “Don’t talk to each other. Don’t look at each other.” 

The car was quiet for the next hundred miles until seemingly out of nowhere Sam was telling Dean to fuck off. John glanced in the rearview again and saw Dean was spelling something, likely equally rude, back before Sam had even stopped speaking. He groaned to himself and pulled the car off the side of the highway next to what appeared to be an abandoned field. 

Good enough. He could work with that. 

“Get out.” He said, not looking at either of them and kicking open his own door. He could hear them doing the same behind him. John was fed up with the both of them, and angry with himself that he hadn’t considered the likely possibility that the boys would keep sniping at each other with letters concealed behind the front bench of the Impala where he couldn’t see. 

He absolutely refused to be in the car with them this full of angst any longer. He opened the trunk, and pulled out a beer, sitting up on the trunk of the car with both boys standing in front of him. They were going to be here a while, so he may as well make himself comfortable. Sam had his arms folded across his chest and was glaring at John and Dean, and Dean was looking at the ground not making eye contact with either of them.

“Run it off.” John said, pointing at the open field beside them. “Whatever the hell is going on, run it out of your system and don’t come back until you can get along.”

Dean nodded, turning towards the field and glancing sideways at Sam, waiting for him even though they were still at odds. Sam let his arms drop to his sides with an angry sigh and a roll of his eyes. 

“Yes sir.” He grumbled, before turning to follow Dean out onto the grass. 

He let them go for just over an hour, both of them returning sweaty and tired when he whistled them to a stop. As they made their way back to him, he dug a couple of bottles of water out of the trunk. He threw one to each boy when they reached him, before heading to the driver’s seat. 

“Dean, you’re in front. Don’t you dare turn around.” John said, that same sharpness from before in his voice. He wasn’t really angry with them anymore, and neither of them seemed particularly interested in starting up again- they just looked tired- but he didn’t want to have to stop the car again and he was done with their collective bullshit. It had been a long week.

They settled back into the car without incident and for once John found the lack of communication encouraging. He just wanted some peace. He pulled onto the highway and checked the time. They had another few hours of good driving light ahead of them and then they’d start looking for a motel.

It wasn’t very long before Dean leaned his head against the window, his arm wrapped loosely around his stomach. Checking in the rearview, Sam was curled against his own window, his eyes closed and his breathing already slow and deep.

“We’ll stop and get you something to eat soon.” John said as it was getting dark, glad to see signs for restaurants and hotels at the next exit. Neither of the boys had eaten since breakfast and it was just past eight and he’d heard Dean’s stomach start growling ten minutes ago. Dean tapped John’s arm with the back of his hand and jerked his head towards Sam, whatever bad blood was between them momentarily forgotten while he made sure Sam’s needs were met too. “Yeah, him too.” 

Dean settled back against the seat again and flipped through John’s cassettes, tired of the radio. He wanted something he could sing along to in his head instead of the randomness that he’d been listening too for the last several hours. 

John wasn’t surprised when it was Led Zeppelin that joined them from the car’s speakers, Dean chose that one a lot. 

*** 

“Take this in come back for another load.” John said, handing Dean the take out bag of food he’d picked up for the three of them and the hotel key as he popped the trunk. Dean nodded and walked towards the hotel while John popped the trunk and started unloading their bags, handing one to Sam and then hesitating for a second, before calling Sam back before he could follow Dean across the parking lot. He didn’t usually get involved between Sam and Dean, and he’d already made his own annoyance abundantly clear, but sometimes more nuanced messages were better received and understood if explicitly outlined.

“Sam, hold on.” John said quickly, causing his youngest to pause and take a couple steps back towards him, looking confused. “I’m not going to ask again why you two are fighting. You’re not going to tell me, and it’s between you and him I guess.”

“Dad-”

“Just listen.” John replied, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter what or who started it. It doesn’t matter if you’re still not over it. The restaurant…low blow, Sammy.”

“But Dean- He-” Sam started to argue, full of frustration, but he stopped himself. He already knew John was right, even as he was trying to argue otherwise. He closed his eyes for a second, his shoulders slumping. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize to me.” John shrugged, removing the final bag from the car and closing the trunk. John didn’t say anything else, just pointed a morose looking Sam towards the room and sent him on his way as Dean approached the car for another armload. 

***

It was nine thirty. Finally having eaten without incident - and content to be by himself when the other option was to go inside and argue with Sam - Dean was sitting on the step outside their hotel room, picking at the stray blades of grass that had wormed up through the cracks between the pavement and concrete. It was a warm night, and he’d been certain he’d found his own little area of peace, before Sam dropped down onto the step beside him and let out a tired sigh. 

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Dean mumbled, barely audible enough for Sam to catch, and not looking up. Sam didn’t take the coldness personally. He’d been thinking over John’s words over the last hour or so as they’d eaten and then split off their separate ways, and he kept remembering the look on Dean’s face when Sam had spouted off the wrong order to the waitress. Dean had looked so betrayed. Given the circumstances, he counted himself lucky he was being acknowledged at all by Dean at the moment. When they fought, sometimes Dean would punish him by shutting him out and refusing to spell or talk or write, or even look at him. 

It wasn’t quite the same as how he didn’t communicate with other people. Dean did it to Sam on purpose out of spite, as opposed to how he couldn’t help his silence when it came to most everyone else. He did it to Sam because he knew Sam hated it. Sam was used to being the only one who really knew Dean and when Dean took that away, it was usually enough for Sam to back down about whatever they were arguing about. They didn’t argue a lot, but they were teenage boys who spent the majority of their time together. Sometimes they got on each others nerves. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Dean didn’t say anything, just inspected a spot of pavement close to his heel.

“Look. I went too far.” Sam said, trying not to let Dean’s silence get under his skin. He needed Dean to hear him and believe him, even if Dean didn’t want to forgive him right away, and that meant keeping his temper in check. “I don’t even remember why we started fighting. Probably just from being cramped in the stupid car so long.”

Dean shrugged back. He couldn’t remember what had started it either, only that he and Sam had been at each other’s throats for a couple days and he was getting tired of reloading and firing off ammunition in Sam’s direction. They were each others primary source of company. It got lonely when they weren’t getting along. 

“Anyway. I really mean it Dean. I know what I did was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

Dean glanced up at Sam then and he really hadn’t meant to do that with his own angry resolve ebbing, because there were those wide sad eyes that had been tricking him into letting Sam get away with shit for years. 

“Don’t mess with my food again Sam.” Dean said after a few seconds, dropping his gaze to the ground again.

“I won’t. I promise. I really am sorry, Dean. I was stupid-”

“Stop trying to prove it.” Dean said, bumping Sam’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t need to convince me. I’m not dad.” 

“Truce?” Sam asked. 

“Truce.” Dean agreed. “Your book is in my bag.”

“What? Why?” Sam asked. 

“I was going to let you think you forgot it.” Dean shrugged. “Truce, you can’t be mad. Bonus, you never knew it was lost. It’s like I solved the problem for you.” 

“That you created.” Sam laughed and Dean smiled back. The silence that followed was relaxed and companionable as they watched the last light fading over the trees and listened to the crickets singing in the grass not far off. 

“Do you think we’re driving again all day tomorrow?” Sam asked after a while. 

“You kidding? We’re gonna get old in that car.” Dean sighed back. He loved the car, he did, but he wanted to love it from afar for a couple of days and stretch his legs for more than food, gas, and sleep. 

“There’s hope. School starts in a couple weeks.” Sam offered teasingly, watching Dean pretend to gag at the suggestion that school could be better than, well, anything. 

“I’d rather die in the car.” Dean groaned, standing up and reaching down a hand to Sam and pulling him to his feet. 

When the two boys returned inside, John could tell they’d already reconciled whatever issue had been causing the upheaval over the last few days even from where he was sitting writing in his journal. He watched them over top of it as they dug through their bags and started getting ready for bed. It was infuriating how quickly they could go from wanting to kill each other to fine and it was frustrating knowing he’d never even know why they’d started fighting in the first place. Sometimes it was like the boys were trying to give him whiplash. Still, he was glad it was over for now. 

Teenagers.


	6. An extra Alphabet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is 8.  
> Dean is 12. 
> 
> John wasn’t sure exactly when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way Sam had learned to use an extra language and an extra alphabet.

John wasn’t sure exactly when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way Sam had learned to use an extra language and an extra alphabet. 

John was watching an eight year old Sam chatter away animatedly in front of the TV to Dean while John took advantage of the down time to work on his journal. Dean was attentive, he always was with Sam, nodding or shaking his head in all the right places, occasionally clicking his tongue and spelling responses back to Sam with his fingers when he wanted to share more than just what Sam could interpret from his face. 

Sam had always been bright and had always picked up new concepts easily. As he’d gotten older, Sam had developed an uncanny ability to read and respond to Dean’s face as though he was speaking in complete sentences. When Sam had been a baby, Dean had often gotten his attention, and kept him quiet on long car rides by clicking his tongue and playing with Sam. Somewhere along the way Sam had started mimicking the sounds Dean made, not just the whispered words that John didn’t know about, but the clicks and whistles that Dean used with him regularly. The result years later was a series of complex signals between the two of them that they used often, Sam switching between using English and non-verbal cues with ease woven throughout his answers during their conversations. 

John knew what the boys had developed wasn’t really a language, but it was one hell of an effective communication tool that the boys had created between themselves. John didn’t understand them, his ear not really focused enough to pick out the different pitches, but that the boys certainly knew and understood the differences. When Dean got so quiet that he couldn’t even make eye-contact or write, Sam could usually get some sort of non-verbal response using their private lexicon. 

As for the extra alphabet? Well, John didn’t know where the boys had picked up that bit of sign language. He couldn’t follow them when they spoke that way either, even though he knew that they were just spelling back and forth to each other and hadn’t learned to use the rest of the language. He’d looked over Sam’s alphabet chart a few times, making the shapes with his fingers in an attempt to learn too, but he found it difficult to remember the positions and it took too long to spell the words when he had to check every letter. He didn’t get the chance to practice as consistently as the boys did as he was often away for days, sometimes weeks, at a time hunting. It had just been easier for he and Dean to keep passing notes instead, but he was a bit jealous of the fluidity of the conversation happening in front of him. 

At eight, Sammy was a sponge for new information, even more curious and inquisitive each day. School was teaching Sam English, Science, Math and how to get back up after being knocked down on the playground. Since Sam had found out the truth around Christmas, Dean had started teaching Sam how to survive, what was really out there, and how to protect himself. Sam was learning constantly from a lot of different sources, but John was grateful for the things Sammy seemed to have picked up on his own, like his ability to help Dean find a voice when he just couldn’t find a way by himself.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is 6.   
> Dean is 10.

Sam closed his lunch box with a sigh. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he had a funny feeling that whatever class Dean was in right now, he probably was. Even though Sam was only in first grade, he knew more than Dean hoped. He knew dad had miscalculated how much money they’d needed to be comfortable while he was gone. He sighed and pulled out his writing journal for the remaining four minutes of snack time, wishing he could somehow make the rest of his sandwich appear in Dean’s lunch box instead. 

He was writing something he didn’t even really like, but creative writing always came after snack if they finished eating early. His story was about a rabbit and he wasn’t committed to it in the slightest. They were leaving in a few days, anyway. He’d throw it out and start something new at his new school. He was starting to get used to the constantly changing schools, but he still didn’t like it. He didn’t think he ever would. Having to introduce himself over and over again, always having to be the new kid, having to find ways to make friends and not care about leaving them behind, having to watch Dean quietly suffer through new teachers talking to him loudly and slowly as though Dean couldn’t understand them because they didn't take the time to understand Dean- 

“Sam, if you’re done, come here for a minute sweetie.” Ms. Wilson was sitting at her desk, gesturing for him to come over. 

He closed his journal obediently, glad to be free of the rabbit story for the time being. He didn’t know what she wanted, but he didn’t usually end up in trouble so he wasn’t concerned. For some reason, adults seemed to like him and usually treated him less like a child than they did other kids his own age.

“Yes, miss?” Sam asked, when he’d reached the corner of her desk. 

“Your older brother, Dean...he’s different isn’t he, Sam?” She asked, watching him closely. 

“No.” Sam said firmly. It was hard not to be on edge when adults started asking questions about Dean. It wasn’t that Sam lacked respect for people with different disabilities or disorders, but more often than not people misclassified Dean based on what they assumed about him rather than taking the time to really see him. Sam had a feeling a lot of people went through school like that, misunderstood and unseen. For Sam, it was hard watching people talk about Dean like he wasn’t in the room, or like he couldn’t understand the conversation being had about him. It made Sam defensive, and it made him angry. “Dean’s quiet, but he’s not _different_.” 

“That’s what I mean, Sam, just that Dean doesn’t talk.” She said with a gentle smile. 

“Okay...” Sam shrugged, waiting to see what was coming next. It was a conversation he’d had a million times with a million different teachers and principals. It was exhausting explaining that Dean could understand, that Dean didn’t need them to talk to him like he was a toddler. 

“Have you ever heard of ASL?” 

Sam frowned. No one had ever asked him that before during one of these conversations. He knew what a, s, and l, were respectively, but he knew that wasn’t what she was asking him. He shook his head. She picked up a piece of cardstock off her desk and showed it to him. 

“This is the sign language alphabet. People who don’t speak or are deaf sometimes use it.” 

Sam nodded slowly, considering the cardstock being held out to him, but not reaching out for it. 

“You already understand Dean, don’t you?” She asked, with a smile tucked away in the corner of her mouth. Sam nodded. Generally he did, at least enough that they could get by in moments when Dean was struggling and they couldn’t find a private space for Dean to speak to him directly. “This could help though.”

“How do you do it?” Sam asked, taking the cardstock from her and looking at the grid in front of him. Each box contained a letter, and for each letter there was a picture of a hand posed in a different position. 

“Follow the positions and spell out the words you want to say. Some people are quite fast at it, with practice.” 

“Thank you.” Sam said absently, moving his fingers clumsily through the positions of the alphabet. He wondered if Dean would do it or if he would think it was dumb. “I’ll try.” 

***

“Other people know it, .” Sam shrugged, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed nervously watching Dean’s face for a reaction. Sometimes Dean didn’t like when people drew attention to his silence and he’d get withdrawn, but it was usually different when it came from Sam. “There’s a whole language, but spelling would be easy for us.”

“Faster than guessing.” Dean murmured as he frowned thoughtfully, holding the little piece of cardstock in his hands and looking the letters over again. He felt self-conscious, he didn't like talking about not talking. It made him feel weak and isolated, but this was Sammy; who he'd always been able to talk to, who had always waited patiently when his words dried up or he stumbled, who, at six years old, had spent more time explaining and advocating for him than even dad had- even if Sam didn't always understand the difference that his instance that other people speak _to_ Dean made. Dean's face settled into something between caution and hope, before he shot Sam a mischievous grin. ‘If you can spell that is...” 

“Shut up, I can spell, jerk.” Sam rolled his eyes in relief, knowing better than to take Dean’s teasing seriously. Teasing meant they were okay, that Dean was okay. “But...maybe we both can?” 

“Sure, Sammy.”


End file.
